


Limited

by alfie_bet



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/Zero, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: But here's my attempt at an explanation, Gen, How did Lord El-Melloi II end up in Chaldea?, Your guess is as any good as mine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:47:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28526463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alfie_bet/pseuds/alfie_bet
Summary: He was asked to live on. The boy wants to live, he does, but he is human and his time is running out. But, nothing is impossible, and living on might mean taking things in a completely different direction than what was intended.
Relationships: Iskandar | Rider/Waver Velvet, but very faintly, more like longing - Relationship
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	Limited

“The binding of a soul to an inanimate object is a practice that well precedes modern magic and the rules therein.” The only sounds in the classroom were the flipping pages of notebooks, the voice of the professor, and the sound of chalk as it danced across the blackboard at the front of the room.

“Although no written records exist of the exact steps, the process can be summarized as follows—” the professor paused his writing, turning around to look at the room full of students. He held up his own scarf, a slightly frayed, yellow, but altogether unremarkable article of clothing. 

“Despite my having put no effort into it, I can assure you that this scarf, which is ordinary in every conceivable way, carries a portion of my essence. Why is that?” The question was posed to the room, a number of hands shooting up. The professor sighed, pointing at one hand in particular.

“Escardos.”

“Alright! I totally have the right answer, okay. So, since you wear it all the time, it has your sweat and skin in it, right? So some of you physically rubbed off on it, and that carries some of you with it?” The blond bobbed excitedly in his seat, blue eyes sparkling with barely-contained glee.

The professor paused, nodding, “You’re surprisingly close to the answer. Does anyone else have anything to add to that? Luvia?”

The young woman lowered her hand, answering, “It’s not so much the physical attachment that matters, but the sentimental value? Like picking up a pen at a book shop won’t leave your essence on it, but using the same pen over and over because it’s your favorite will?”

He hummed, pleased, “That’s certainly part of it, too, but it’s not the full picture. This—” he held up the scarf again, “—is bound to me by both physical and emotional attachment. If it were purely physical, then any ordinary thing that one uses daily, like a spoon, would be a bound object. But, it goes deeper—” 

The professor turned to look at the board, showing the diagram of a (admittedly, crudely drawn) warrior. The warrior held his sword aloft, but the cape was outlined in red chalk to distinguish it from the white lines.

“In order for an object to be a perfect conduit of a person, it needs to hold sentimental value as well. For example, the warrior in the diagram lives to fight and will do so without fail, but before his sword he must always take his cape, for it is part of his image and how he presents himself before friend and foe alike. Between the sword and the cape, the warrior values the cape more. Thus, the cape is the more capable conduit of his soul.”

The professor paused, coughing twice into his gloved hand. Clearing his throat, he continued, “Of course, this is not absolute. Weapons are valid conduits of the soul, as are books, jewelry, or even mundane household objects. As we see them today, these pieces of humanity that harbor the essence of the soul are what are known as ‘relics.’”

He coughed again, shaking his head, “...we’ll discuss soul-binding as seen through a global lens on Tuesday. Come prepared with your notebooks, pencils, and an object of sentimental value. Class dismissed,” he coughed again, waving off the concerned glances of some of the students as they passed by him. Flat waved enthusiastically, calling out that ‘London’s Scarfiest Professor’ should feel better soon before being dragged away by Svin and Caules.

As the students dwindled, a lone figure lingered by the door, her hood obscuring her face. 

Gray peeked out of the shadow of her hood to meet her teacher’s gaze directly. “Sir...are you feeling well? Your cough sounds...bad—” Her voice was soft but laced with concern, and she fidgeted with the hem of her cloak, as though her own word choice disturbed her. 

He sighed, shaking his head, “I’m fine, lady, I promise. It’s just this time of year, I always catch a cold. If it gets worse, I’ll go see someone.” Which he wouldn’t, definitely not, but it wasn’t as though his young apprentice had to know.

Gray worried her lip, turning to face him. “...please, sir. I’m not the only one who has noticed.” With that, she ducked her head, quietly excusing herself from the office. 

Lord El-Melloi II stood in his spot, suddenly filled with the kind of dread that comes from an unexpected, unwelcome, and unfavored house guest.

* * *

“So, my darling dearest big brother has caught a little cold! You poor, poor thing, I should send someone to tend to you in your hour of need.” 

Said ‘dearest big brother’ glared from his spot by the dining room table. Lord El-Melloi took a slow sip of his coffee without breaking eye contact. “I can assure you, Reines, that will certainly not be necessary. I have a cold, nothing more, stop giving me that look—”

Reines cackled from her spot on the sofa, kicking her legs idly. The buckles of her shoes caught the low light of the room, gleaming almost as brightly as the mirth in her eyes.

“What look? I’m looking at you with nothing but genuine concern and sisterly love, are you saying you don’t love me, brother dear?” 

He sputtered, raising his cup back to his lips almost as though it could shield him from the blonde menace across the room.

“I’m choosing to avoid answering that.”

“Oh, you wound me, so.”

He scoffed, draining the rest of his coffee. The silence of the moment was ruined when he had another coughing fit, sending droplets of coffee flying. Reines curled her lip, hopping off of the sofa and out of the way of the liquid.   
  
“If you get me sick with whatever you have, I simply won’t let you hear the end of it.”

“Then go, I’m not keeping you here, I—” he stopped, turning his head to cough again. Pushing his chair away from the table, he got up to fill his mug with water. The dots of red covering his hand didn’t go unnoticed by the blonde, her eyes widening.

“Did someone curse you? That’s no ordinary cough you have, brother dear.”

“...it’s only been like this recently, I’m sure it’s all the dust in that blasted Clocktower. I just need more fresh air, that’s all—” he gasped, taking a drink of water to try to quell the coughing. 

Reines didn’t look convinced, eyes narrowing, “The dust? What’s your next excuse, I’m curious.”

“It’s not an excuse if it’s a reason,” he frowned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He grimaced at the smear of red, dabbing at it with a washcloth. “You all need to stop hovering, I’m a grown man, for heaven’s sake. You’re free to stay, but I’m not about to accomodate you further.” He walked out of the kitchen towards the living room, flopping down on the sofa to reach for his case of cigars. Reines watched him for a moment longer before turning her head.

“I suppose, if you’re going to be like that, then I have better things to do. This place smells horrible when you do that, so maybe you can cut it out while I’m here?” She gestured to the cigar in his fingers, the older man wasting no time in blowing a cloud of smoke her way in a silent, but petulant, show of defiance. She huffed in indignation, turning on her heel to march out of the apartment.

He turned to watch her go, chuckling to himself at his small victory before coughing again. One turned to many, the mage grunting at the now-familiar tight feeling in his chest. He grimaced as the coughing continued, bending forward to cover his mouth with his hand. The cigar tumbled from his hand, landing on the coffee table with a small tap. He gasped between coughs, feeling the wetness coat his fingers as he couldn’t quite get a decent breath in. 

After what seemed like an eternity, he finally got the coughing under control, dropping his head on the back of the sofa, sticky hands resting limply in his lap. He blinked tiredly, trying to rid his vision of the stars that seemed to cloud it. And— _ ah _ —he focused on him, the creases on his face relaxing at the sight of the painting. Iskandar, doing what came natural, accomplishing the impossible through unconventional means. And, sometimes, Waver felt like he had put that painting where it was to serve as the patient, but firm, gaze of Rider, to replace what he’d lost in the war. 

The tight feeling in his chest hadn’t lessened, and he blinked away the mist that threatened to leak from the corners of his eyes. 

“...I’ll go see a doctor. It’s nothing, I know it is, but if it will get the others off of my case, then I suppose it’s the best course of action. Right?”

The question hung unanswered in the quiet apartment, as usual.

* * *

The weekend seemed to pass in a flurry, and Gray was anxious to be back in her teacher’s class. Try as he may to dissuade her, she knew that he looked unwell. He was paler than usual, eyes a little too sunken to be solely due to a lack of sleep. And his hands, they were so much colder than she knew they had any right to be this time of year. Lord El-Melloi was not what one could call the ‘healthiest’ person, but for him to look so frail? It was unnerving.

Her head snapped up when the door to the classroom opened, Lord El-Melloi setting his things down on the desk in front of the students. He looked...surprisingly well-put together, Gray relaxing. It was just a cold, after all, there was nothing to worry about. He even looked like he had taken a shower that morning, which was a marked improvement in her book.

The students presented their objects, Flat bringing one of his favorite comic books as his chosen object. He held out the comic proudly, beaming from ear to ear, as if to proudly proclaim his choice to the entire class. Gray immediately expected her teacher to fly into a tirade, spouting off classics like ‘when will you take this class seriously’ and ‘do I look like a joke to you, Mr. Escardos?’ 

Everyone’s jaws dropped when, instead of the expected, Lord El-Melloi just shook his head, “Even if I can’t see the personal value, if you brought it in then you must have known what you were choosing. Good work, Flat.” 

Flat let the words sink in for a long moment, setting the comic down. His smile had faded, the blond looking at his teacher intently “...Professor, are you dying?”

That seemed to break the short-lived patience, Lord El-Melloi grimacing, “And just where did you get a notion like that? I’m not allowed to die, Escardos, and that’s all there is to it.”

Flat seemed to laugh at that, but Gray noticed that the laugh didn’t seem genuine, nor did her teacher look sincerely angry. If anything, he looked...nervous. Like Flat had revealed something incredibly private in front of the room without any regard. Still, the class continued after the minor disruption, the professor pausing only to cough discreetly into a handkerchief.

The students filed out of the classroom, Gray doing the same. She cast a worried glance toward her teacher but said nothing, opting to visit him that evening and just get things straightened out. He seemed to be in a good mood, so it would just be a quick and pleasant conversation. She was sure of it.

* * *

Lord El-Melloi II drank from his third glass of wine, a half-finished cigar resting in the ashtray. Tipping the glass back, he drained the ruby red contents, coughing twice. He dabbed at his mouth absently, sighing, before refilling his glass. He knew this was pitiful, but when wasn’t he? That was the way he had lived his life, that was nothing new.

“...right, Rider? This is pitiful, isn’t it? You think I’m pathetic, don’t you?” He turned his gaze upward, toward the painting hanging above him. He stared at the image for a moment before snorting, drinking his glass before setting it down. Rising on shaky legs, he turned to look at the painting.

“...You always look so smug, you know that? You think you’re better than me, don’t you? No...no, you know you’re better than me. Well, joke’s on you, because I know that, too.” He glared at the painting, talking to the wall like it could talk back.

“You told me to live. Why. Why would you do something so cruel? Was that your idea of a punishment for me being so weak? Was it?” His voice raised unexpectedly, echoing in the empty apartment. “I know I’m weak! I don’t need you to tell me that! I feel my weakness, my incompetence, every single goddamn day. And I look at you, and I know what perfection is, and...and I’m not it. And I can’t even follow you—” he choked, covering his mouth as heat began to prick his vision. 

“...I’m so close to you, but I can’t reach you. I’ll never reach you. Rider, I...I don’t have enough time, I can’t even follow your order. Isn’t that like me? What did you ever see in me?” His voice had dropped to a tiny murmur, his hand ghosting the frame of the painting. His attention was drawn away by the sound of a door creaking open, Gray slipping in.

“...I heard yelling, sir. Are you alright?”

He stared at the pale girl, mouth agape as if he was trying to comprehend her intrusion in his space. After a long moment, he laughed, a hoarse, barking sound that caught the girl off guard. She flinched, unsure of how to react.

“...I’m limited, Gray.”

“Pardon?” She blinked, brows furrowed. “Sir, I don’t understand—”

“This, all of this, it’s...I’m not…” he waved his hands, trying to find gentler words for what he wanted to say. Failing, he shook his head, “...fact of the matter is, I’m dying.”

She stared, watching him sway on his feet like he’d just made some great revelation. Gray shook her head, pursing her lips, “Sir, please, I know you’re...well, you’re drunk, but please don’t joke like that—”

“I’m not joking, lady. I have...not a lot of time. I’m not doing anything about it, so don’t worry—” he laughed breathlessly, shaking his head, “...you had to see me like this, I’m sorry—”

He was cut off by a flurry of fabric, arms wrapping around his middle. The young girl didn’t say anything, but he could feel the dampness in his shirt and the way her shoulders shook as she clung to him. He blinked, suddenly unsure of what to do. His hand rested on the top of her head, the other awkwardly patting her back. Why would she cry for him? He was a useless mage at best, and a blight on the lives of others at worst. 

“...Gray...why the tears?”

“You can’t die! I can’t protect you from this, it’s...it’s not fair—” she protested wetly into his shirt, not letting go. “There has to be something we can do, some sort of treatment, anything! Or—Or, you could ask the Archibald faction, they’d find a cure, you’ll be okay—”   
  
“Gray.” She raised her head when she felt his hand tap the top of it, finally looking up at him. He was smiling, but in the sort of sad way that a parent does when they’re trying to console their child over the inconsolable. “I know you’re upset, and I’ve explored those avenues on my own. The chance is just too slim, and my luck has never facilitated odds like that. I’ll take what time is mine to have, and that’s the end of that.”

She hated that, even in the drunken throes of his wine, he was still able to make a logical point. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to say anything, just continued to hold him tightly.

* * *

“You know, dear brother, Olga Marie told me about the most interesting thing she found in one of her father’s pilfered journals.” Reines stirred her tea idly, glancing up from her spot at the table. Lord El-Melloi met her gaze, curiosity winning over annoyance.

“Oh? And what’s that, exactly?”

“My, my, have I tempted you so easily? You must be very bored indeed, holed up here in this tiny apartment when, need I remind you, my family offered you an entire suite in our home to spend your twilight year—”

“Losing my interest, Reines,” he cut her off sharply, pausing to cough into a tissue. His voice was, frustratingly, more gravelly than intended, coming out more as a rasp than a threat.

“Right, of course,” she smiled, undeterred, “Have you ever heard of a pseudo-servant?”

“A pseudo-servant?” He sat up slightly, brows furrowed, “...I haven’t. What is it, exactly?”

She nodded, folding her hands in her lap as she spoke, “A few months back, you gave a lesson on binding one’s soul to an object and ‘relics,’ do you recall?”

“Of course I do, I spent a great deal of research on that lesson. But what, exactly, are you getting at?”

“Well, in the journal, picture this: so, a ‘relic’ has the essence of its previous owner, yes? Imagine if one could bind the essence, not the item, to a new host? It wouldn’t be like the inheritance of an item so much as the inheritance of the previous owner’s will. And, if that item belonged to a figure that, theoretically, couldn’t be summoned as a servant in a Holy Grail War but still carries power, then that would give the host the power of that servant. Theoretically, of course.” She didn’t point out the gleam of barely veiled interest in his eyes, just sitting back to let him process the information.

“...if this is all theoretical, then is there a theoretical summoning for such a thing?” He wasn’t about to let himself sound hopeful, but he couldn’t help but have the tiniest glimmer of it.

“As a matter of fact, there is. Olga Marie has been very interested in learning about the magic of her family line, independent of her father, so she’s even offered the Animusphere estate auditorium for such a test. What do you say?”

He wanted to say that it sounded insane. He wanted to say that he wasn’t so desperate to cling onto such a slim chance, that it sounded an awful lot like the ramblings of a deranged mage. But, without warning, the warm gaze of his servant from so long ago entered his vision, beckoning him to live on, and Lord El-Melloi nodded without thinking.

“I think it’s crazy, but I suppose that I’m the crazier one for agreeing.”

* * *

Olga Marie had followed the instructions to the letter. Everything was in its place, according to the journal she’d ‘borrowed’. Lord El-Melloi had been laid out in the summoning circle, looking far too frail for her liking. A strong wind could likely blow the man over, and it almost had, if Reines’ thinly-veiled worried glance was any indication.

Pluto. The celestial body that was linked both with death and with change. The circle had been crafted to reflect this reference, various objects being strewn about the space to strengthen the connection between the physical world and what could be waiting beyond. 

Finally, the relic, the conduit that would hopefully link the frail body to the strength of the past—it didn’t look like much, just a broken lacquered handle, but Olga Marie had been told that it had belonged to an infamous Chinese tactician some centuries prior. By all accounts, the recorded findings of Zhuge Liang and the idiosyncracies of Lord El-Melloi II seemed to match up ideally. If all went well, the two would blend seamlessly together without a loss of consciousness on the latter’s part. If not…

Well, she supposed a change in the El-Melloi seat might be a welcome change, if the warmth of the other lords of the Clocktower toward the former were any indication.

Glancing down at the man in the circle, the young girl sighed, “Are you ready? The stars are nearly at the ideal height, it’s almost time to begin.”

He stared up at the open ceiling, the stars twinkling above. After a moment, he nodded, “It’s now or never, I suppose.”

She looked at his outfit before raising an eyebrow at Reines. The blonde merely shook her head, shrugging, “I tried to get him to wear the robes of our family, but he wouldn’t budge.”

“You’re right, I wouldn’t budge, I still won’t, now stop talking about me like I’m already dead,” he snapped from his spot on the floor, going largely unnoticed. Instead of going into what would be his fate with the dignity of the El-Melloi black and silver, he instead wanted to be comfortable. His favorite red coat, worn in the elbows and a little dull from overuse, and the same frayed yellow scarf that Gray had given him for a Christmas present a few years back—these and a black shirt and pants were really all he needed. 

Well, that, and a relic of his own from a Grail War long since past, kept tucked secretly in his coat pocket. For a little added luck, of course.

Gray stood off to the side, the few of his class invited standing not too far behind her. Whatever would become of their professor, they wanted to see it to the end, no matter the outcome. Gray silently watched Olga Marie put the finishing touches on the array, setting the broken handle over his folded hands.

“...We’re ready. This is a point which will live on in history. The moment that two become one, creating a new being, is now—” Olga Marie called out to the nearly empty auditorium before directing her gaze above, the incantation falling seamlessly from her lips. She couldn’t help the bubbling excitement as the circle began to glow, the items around it disappearing into the ether. However, Reines quickly snapped her head toward Olga, eyes wide.

“Stop the ritual, there’s something wrong—”

Something was certainly changing, as Lord El-Melloi began to fade, bit by bit, from the circle. He didn’t seem to feel it, merely clinging onto the handle tightly.

“Olga Marie, listen to me, stop the ceremony!”

“I—I can’t, there wasn’t anything about stopping it in the notes—” she paled, realizing her mistake as she said it. It had been only an experimental notion, but it had never been done. Now, whatever was happening was bound to complete, and there was nothing to be done to stop it.

Gray attempted to rush forward toward the white-blue glow, suddenly finding Flat’s arms around her. She struggled in his grip, finding that he was simply too strong to overpower from her position. The blond looked surprisingly calm, despite their professor disappearing rapidly before their eyes.

“...He’ll be okay, Gray. This is how it’s supposed to be.”

“What are you talking about, he’s going to die—” she shook her head, still struggling. Flat just shook his head, “Nope, this is only the beginning for him. We’ll see him again, I’m certain of it. Just let it happen.”

She really couldn’t do much else, watching as Lord El-Melloi II disintegrated into nothing, leaving an empty circle, a shaken group of students, and far more questions than any of them had the right to answer.

* * *

“Senpai, are you sure you want to try to summon someone now? You...well, you only have enough materials for one summon, at best—”

The lavender-haired girl fidgeted next to the young man next to her, the latter’s eyes filled with a sort of desperate determination.

“I know, Mash, but I just...I woke up this morning, and I had this feeling. Like, I needed to do this right now, and I can’t shake it, so...I’m going to try. I have to. The other servants are getting tired from being stuck out in the field so much, it’d be nice to have another pair of helping hands.”

“...I couldn’t agree more, but...no, no. If you had a feeling, then I trust your gut, Senpai,” she smiled warmly, adjusting her glasses.

“Trust my gut, huh...yeah! Alright, Mash, let’s do this!”

The two teens carefully placed the iridescent crystals into the array, making sure that the alignment was perfect. There was simply no room for error, not when a new servant was needed so desperately.

“...Okay. On the count of three, ready?”

“Right. One—”

“Two—”

“Three!”

The array began to glow the same pale blue, a sense of dread coming over both master and demi-servant. Against all odds, the lights began to sparkle and glow in a multitude of colors, Mash gasping in delight.

“Senpai, it’s a servant, you did it—”

“Not yet, Mash, wait a second—” he frowned, waiting for the lights to dim and the smoke to clear. It could very well be materials to strengthen one of their already-summoned friends. Yet, the figure standing before them didn’t seem as...physically strong as the other heroes they had, but he still seemed important in his own way. His red coat was worn in the elbows, and perhaps a little faded, but it complemented his frayed yellow scarf all the same. The man glanced down at the two teenagers, shock written on his face for only a moment before he cleared his throat, crossing his arms.

“I am servant Zhuge Liang...what?”

“Zhuge...Liang? Um...no offense, sir, but...erm…” the young master scratched the back of his head sheepishly, looking over the man in front of them. “Is that actually your name?”

“Huh? You think I’m the wrong person?” he frowned, before realizing that, no, ‘Zhuge Liang’ was actually not his true name at all, not in a complete sense. “...Ah. Well, you’re right. I am actually Lord El-Melloi II, but I inherited that servant’s powers all the same.”

Mash nodded, seeming to show a glimmer of understanding. “Well, Lord El-Melloi—”

“Add the ‘II’.”

“...Lord El-Melloi II, we are very happy to have you in Chaldea. My name is Mash, and this is Fujimaru Ritsuka. He’s our best, and  _ last _ , Master here.”

The teen smiled, waving his hand in greeting sheepishly, and the newly-summoned Lord couldn’t help but see the glimmer of a younger, far more pathetic master that he once knew, years ago.

“Then, it’s a pleasure to meet the both of you. I should hope this arrangement will be to the satisfaction of all parties involved.”

And perhaps it would, maybe it wouldn’t be, but he knew that his chest no longer hurt, his cough was gone, and Olga Marie was, perhaps, one of the brightest young mages he had ever had the pleasure of meeting. 

He decided, if he ever did find his way back to England, he’d buy the girl a gift basket.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Well, that's been sitting in my computer for an uncomfortably long amount of time. Here's hoping that, by posting this, I can finally manage to summon Lord El-Melloi II in FGO. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are highly coveted, read repeatedly, and deeply valued.


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